


Blood On Our Hands

by victoriaione



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victoriaione/pseuds/victoriaione
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is a notorious serial killer known to the world as the 'Desert City Strangler'. He's a lone wolf who prefers to operate alone and under the radar, until he hears about another murderer known as the 'Chicagoland Killer'. Unbeknownst to Dean his brother-in-crime, Castiel, is also keeping an eye on him through the media and both get the notion that they need to find a way to meet one another. Their individual killing sprees come to a head when they seek out the same victim, a young Kansas lawyer named Sam Winchester, chosen in a last ditch effort to impress on another and finally meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I based this story off an idea posted on [Tumblr](http://therangerofthenorth.tumblr.com/post/33842933733)! I apologize for the horrific summary there. Who's good at summarizing their own work? Nobody, that's who!

_Police have reason to suspect that Marissa O'Brien, age twenty-two, is yet another victim of the Desert City Strangler. Local authorities are reporting that O'Brien was found around five this afternoon in her home just outside of Reseda, and it is believed that she was killed sometime between the hours of three and four this morning. Family members last spoke to O'Brien late Friday night when she was heading out for drinks with friends, and became concerned after they didn't hear from her again. Police commisioner Don Elliot reported that O'Brien had deep cuts on her neck indicating that she was strangled to death with some form of garrote, most likely made from fishing line or wire. At this time police are speculating that the killer may still be somewhere in the area, and are asking that people extend measures of caution when out and about this evening. O'Brien is the sixth known victim of the Desert City Strangler, who first became active last spring with the murder of Phoenix college student Danielle Evans...._

Dean flicked off the radio, leaning back into the well worn leather of the Impala's front seat and taking the last swig out of his somewhat warm bottle of beer. He had been nursing it while listening to the news out of Reseda, morbidly anxious to hear about whether or not Marissa O'Brien had yet been found. He wasn't honestly surprised, not really, and if anything he was fairly pleased with the quick coverage. With every murder came more and more speculation, and what did people like more than a mystery that they thought they could solve? It seemed like everyone wanted to be the hero, and, well, it was his job to be the anti-hero. Somebody had to give all those idiots something to strive for, and he figured it might as well be him. 

It hadn't started out as an obsession at first. In fact that first time with Danielle Evans had been an honest accident. He had met her at a bar in Phoenix, a place frequented by uppity college kids who thought that working class guys like him weren't worth the time of day. Danielle, however, had been reeled in by his good looks and willingness to ply her full of mid-priced beer until she was nice and drunk. After that they had gone back to his hotel room out by the highway where he was working a construction job, and things had gotten hot and heavy. He was almost there, ready to seal the deal, when she had slammed the proverbial door in his face. It had turned ugly after that, with him insisting and her crying to be taken home. It had just happened before he could even really think. He had grabbed for his tool belt on the small hotel table and had grabbed out the first thing he could find, which happened to be a roll of gunite wire. She had run for the door but he was quicker, the wire unspooling as he wrapped it around her neck and pulled it tight with both fists.

The first time had been a very messy learning curve. He had pulled almost too tight and the wire had sliced in far too deeply, getting blood everywhere. She had kicked her feet too much too, and had created a great deal of noise. Despite these little problems, however, he had felt so intensely satisfied in a way that he never had before. There was something so deeply thrilling about watching the light fade from her eyes and listening as she took in that last rattled breath. That was why Dean continued to do it, or at least that was why he'd continued to at first. He was a man that lived alone, traveling from city to city doing odd jobs and spending time scouting out a new victim before he killed and moved on. 

Everything had changed though when he'd read about the Chicagoland Killer in the papers. Where Dean had become very calculated in his kills and methodology, whoever was behind the string of killings in Illinois seemed to be a welcoming friend of chaos. The only consistence in the murders seemed to be the weapon, a hunting knife with a sinfully evil serrated edge, and the victims themselves. He liked family's, and the police believed that he (or she, really) watched them for weeks or months before committing the slayings. There were four cases so far ranging from Valparaiso, Indiana all the way north to Wheatland, Wisconsin. 

It was big news whenever the Chicagoland Killer struck, and it was something that both enticed Dean and made him feel a little bit pissed off. Part of the thrill now was the discovery and the media frenzy that followed. His work, his joy, was being recognized publicly right there on the television and radio and even in print, and he wasn't sure if he wanted someone stealing his thunder. Still he had to appreciate the fact that there was someone else out there like him, who maybe got the same sick little pleasures that he did, and it was enough to make him ponder reaching out to his like-minded fellow.

That would have to wait though. He was just in Castaic, not even an hour away from Reseda, and he needed to put more distance between himself and Marissa O'Brien. Tossing his beer bottle into the paper sack in the passenger seat he started up the car engine and pulled out of the Pilot Travel Center, heading for the highway. His last kills had been to close together so he had to make tracks, deciding to head for Nevada. Maybe it was time to put a little more thought into reaching out to the mid-west, and hell, he was an inventive type guy. He'd come up with something. After all he had nothing ahead of him but a long drive and time to think. 

\---------

 

Castiel sat at his scarred up kitchen table, watching the small television set that sat on the counter next to the dish drainer. It was loud outside for being so late, but if he heard the commotion of the neighbors (having yet another domestic dispute) or the kids playing basketball in the small park across the street he wasn't acknowledging it. His eyes were glued to the news, reports of a body found in Reseda that fit the MO of the so-called 'Desert City Stranger'. He had been following the stranglers work since body number two had been found in Texas sometime last summer, but this was the first report he'd heard in quite sometime. He had thought that perhaps the strangler had given up his life of crime, or that he'd been caught for some other lesser offense and was just currently off the streets. Yet here was his handiwork assuring that he was very much present and accounted for.

Cas had grown up in Chicago, just up the street from his current apartment in Rogers Park. His mother had been a real piece of work, a complete and total religious wing nut as evidenced by the fact that she had named him _Castiel_. His name quite literally meant 'angel of Thursday', which was ironic because he had been born on a damn Tuesday. If it hadn't been bad enough growing up branded with a name that got him ridiculed by every kid on the block, there had been endless hours of church and Sunday school and prayer services. There were times that he thought he knew Latin better than English and there were certainly days where his knees had ached from all the kneeling and standing.

It had certainly done his head in, to the point that he'd finally snapped and told his mother that he didn't believe in God. That had been enough to get him kicked out of the house at the age of seventeen, and he hadn't been back since. Instead he'd worked a series of less than stellar jobs and bounced back and forth between shitty apartments in equally shitty neighborhoods. It had been a vastly unfulfilled life, until he'd taken on a house painting job for the Anderson family in Elgin.

They had been so wholesome and so sickeningly All-American. A mother, father, and three well adjusted children who were all under the age of ten. They had been kind to Cas, had even let him eat a few meals at their house when he had spent a longer day than usual painting or touching up the outside trim. Their generosity had given him ample time to observe them and their nature, to see the kind of life that he had never had growing up. Instead of bringing him a sense of peace and comfort it had just made him angry and resentful, and so they had become the firsts.  
It had taken him six months to get around to killing them, if only because he didn't want to get caught. If he had acted quickly after being seen working around their home, that would have made him the prime suspect. He had moved on, taken another job away from Elgin, and had simply waited. It had been difficult, very much so, but it had all been worth it. He had used a hunting knife that he'd stolen from the back of Rick Anderson's truck on his last day of work for the family, and it had been glorious. There had been blood, so much of it, little rivers of red that spread out across their butter colored wood floors right up to the edges of his boots. It had stained their clothes and their perfectly starched white bed sheets and he had felt _free_.

That had been the best part, that wonderful feeling of total and utter release. It had been the biggest rush of his life, and he knew that night when he left that he'd have to do it again, that he _had_ to have that feeling back.

Hearing about the Desert City Strangler had fascinated him, had made him feel a strange sense of camaraderie. It was nice to not feel alone in the world, to have something to hang onto besides the delicious feeling of blood on his hands. Someone out there was just as fucked up and strange as he was it seemed, and as he watched the news report about Marissa O'Brien he knew that he had to do something. For months now he had caught little glimpses of this person, whoever they might be, through words in the paper and blips on the nightly news and now it was time to make a change. It was time to extend a hand to this man or woman, to say 'I'm here and I know you're out there too', and to hope that they would extend a hand back.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things begin to escalate as Dean reaches out to the Chicagoland Killer. Castiel, not to be out done, let's the Desert City Strangler know that his message was heard, loud and clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So here's chapter two! I hope it's not a hot mess, I wrote it in a hurry!

U.S. Route 50 was often touted as the loneliest road in America, and the people who described it as such were not wrong. It was a rather desolate highway, with long stretches of road that put you quite literally in the middle of nowhere with no places to stop and nothing to see but desert and mountains. With all the new highways and interstates that had gone up over the years, Route 50 wasn't necessarily the fastest way to get anywhere anymore, though Dean still preferred it. All that emptiness provided a cover of sorts, provided a certain measure of safety that could not be found on the more highly trafficked stretches of road.

The headlights of his 1967 Chevy Impala cut through the darkness like a knife, lighting the way between Ely, Nevada and Delta, Utah. There were over one-hundred and fifty miles between the two towns, and only two places to stop in all those miles. The radio was blaring, an old cassette tape that crackled and caught in places, and Dean was drumming his fingers against the steering wheel as he scouted out a good location to pull over. Most nights out here the moon was so bright that everything lit up like some photo negative afternoon, but the cloud cover overhead made it harder to see than usual. It was good for him though, all that inky blackness, because it would make the Impala less noticeable should anyone happen to come along. It wasn't likely, not really, but one could never be certain about anything in life.

There was a wide spot up ahead and Dean pulled off the shoulder of the road, cutting the engine. Without the roar of the motor and the garbled voice of Ronald Doeser he could hear the wild thumping coming from the trunk and it brought a smile to his face. Had sincerely been hoping that Kathy Summers wouldn't suffocate before he found somewhere to stop because it just took all the joy out of things if she was already dead before he got to have any real fun. Opening up the glove box he fished out his maglite and a roll of wire, along with a folded up piece of paper which he tucked into his back pocket before sliding out of the car with keys in hand.

Reaching the trunk Dean unlocked it and lifted it up, revealing his latest victim who was bound and gagged and had been since they'd ventured into the parking lot of the ironically named Last Chance bar. Kathy was a pretty redhead with wide green eyes and a trim body, the type of woman that every man wanted to take home with him for a night or two. They had met at the bar, Dean enjoying a cold beer and Kathy ordering her fifth martini. They had struck up a conversation that was more blatant flirting than actual small talk, and it hadn't taken long for him to convince the woman that they should head to his car. It had been almost to easy, and he had nearly let her go for that fact alone, but there was just something in the way she walked that made him decide she'd be the one to carry the first message, perhaps the most important thing she'd ever do in her waste of a life. 

Grabbing Kathy by her feet he dragged her bodily out of the trunk, her muffled screams quieting a bit when her head smacked first the bumper and then the rocky ground. He dragged her a few feet from the car, just at the edges of the scrub brush that lined the wide spot off the road, and then cut her legs and arms free with a pocket knife he kept in his boot. She immediately began to kick and flail, which only spurred him on, dropping down to straddle her waist in the dust. He unrolled the wire and grabbed her hair, jerking her head up to make it easier to wrap the length of it around her neck. He cut what he needed free from the roll and then untied the gag, letting her scream into the night. Pulling on his gloves he wrapped the ends of the wire around his hands he began to pull, letting her beat against his chest with her hands, feet struggling to get a grip in the loose dirt. The tighter he pulled the more she fought at first, but finally her screams choked off into desperate attempts to breathe and her hits became soft little slaps. Eventually her hands fell to her sides and her chest stopped heaving all together, her panicked eyes fading into a dead nothing.

Dean was sweating and panting a little by the time it was over, his heart pounding from the adrenaline. He just sat there for a long moment staring down at his handiwork before he let go of the wire and stood up, turning Kathy over so she was face down. Using his knife he sliced open the back of her shirt, pulling the piece of paper out of his back pocket. He studied it for a moment before he peeled off his gloves, placing two fingers into the blood ooze from the deep cuts in her neck from the wire. With her blood he began to draw a picture across her smooth pale skin, starting at the base of her neck and traveling down her spine. It was a large symbol, an ancient Celtic sigil that was literally the sigil of the cosmos. It was Dean's way of reaching out to the Chicagoland Killer, his way of saying 'here I am, I think we may be kindreds'. 

When he was finished he gathered up his things and went back to the car, dumping everything into the trunk. He cleaned up his hands and dusted himself off, giving Kathy's shadowy figure one last look before he got back into the Impala and drove off, singing along at the top of his lungs to 'Don't Fear The Reaper'. 

\----------

Even if Castiel had wanted to it would have been nearly impossible not to catch the news about the latest strangle victim out west. At first there had been speculation that it was a copy-cat killer, a new element turning up in the crime that had not been present before. The Desert City Strangler was a methodical man, predictable at least in the way he went about committing his murders. He was efficient, always in and out and neat about things, so when Kathy Summers had been found face down on the side of a desolate stretch of road, her shirt ripped open and a big symbol on her back, the police had been baffled. Everything else seemed to fit the profile, right down to the clean up of the area, so why had this one thing changed? 

Experts had been brought in and it hadn't taken long to figure out the meaning of the symbol, though that fact really lent nothing to helping investigators along. Previous doubts were now erased, this was definitely the same guy, but what nobody knew was why this and why now. Nobody except for Castiel, however, who sat glued to his television set, every paper he could get in the city laying open in front of him to the same page. They all featured a picture of the symbol found on Kathy's back, along with a loose interpretation of the meaning. Each paper and each news caster said something slightly different, but they were all at their basic the very same. Every individual piece of the symbol meant something different, but together they had one meaning. It was an affirmation of the order of the world, an affirmation of blessing. 

The Desert City Strangler wasn't trying to make a point, wasn't even really leaving some kind of calling card. He was reaching out to him, he was telling him that they were the new world order, and that he had his blessing. It was exciting, very much so, and Castiel knew that he had to write back in a manner of speaking. He had to let the strangler know that he had been heard loud and clear, and he knew just the way to do it.

\----------

The Russell family lived in Joliet, in a white two story Victorian style house on a fairly typical residential street. Castiel knew who they were because he had done some landscaping work for John Russell's brother who lived in Waukegan, and had been introduced to the family when he had been recommended to help landscape the lawn of their new home. He had never actually gotten around to doing the work, John had hired someone else, but Castiel had taken a liking to them just the same. He had been watching them for a few weeks now, and seeing the message from the strangler had driven him to strike a bit earlier than he normally would.

He had taken the bus from his apartment to a stop a few blocks away from the Russell house, walking the rest of the way. He was wrapped up in his trusty old trench coat, everything he needed hidden in the inside pockets. It was dark as he passed beneath the street lamps, other family's on the block already tucked away inside for the night, finishing up dinner and settling in for homework or television programs. Nobody noticed him because nobody was out, the fall chill in the air enough to keep them in unless something dire came up, like an emergency or a dog that needed walking. It was the perfect kind of evening as he bounced up the steps to their front door, knocking twice and then waiting patiently.

Castiel had an innocent face, sweet and doe-eyed, the kind of face that was hard to turn away from. John Russell recognized him when he opened the door, confused but accepting of the story that he was fed. Castiel had been doing work for someone else nearby when his truck had broken down. He remembered their address from the visit he'd made to talk about their lawn care needs, and had walked over instead of scaring someone who wasn't familiar with him. The story convinced John who stepped back to let Cas in, grabbing the phone book and the cordless phone and leading him into the kitchen.

Cas stood with a glass of iced tea in his hands, watching as John searched through the phone book for a local tow service. The perfect moment came when he turned with his back to Castiel, the glass serving as a fantastic weapon when it was slammed into the back of the man's head. He hit the floor with a stumble and a groan, the glass hitting the tile and shattering. From there Castiel worked fast with the knife that he drew from inside his coat, going to work on John Russell with abandon. The thrill of it seemed to negate the actual hard work of it, and he had a bounce in his step as he pounded up the stairs. It didn't take long to locate John's wife and son, finishing the job with his usual maniacal flair.

When the actual deed itself was done he left his message for the strangler, in bright red blood on the pristine white living room wall of the Russell home. He had found another Celtic sigil, this one a large open eye above an open palmed hand. The eye symbolized the power of seeing and vision, and the hand a symbol of the shaping of power, of making the world into a pattern of will. That was, after all, what they were doing. They were shaping the world, bending it to their will, and he knew that when the strangler got wind of this that he'd be pleased. 

He had an answer, out there in the open and in front of the whole watching and waiting world. His message had been delivered and he had been heard loud and clear. 

\----------

Dean was in Orem, Utah when he saw the news from his hotel room, a special report on CNN about the Chicagoland Killer and the mysterious message left on the wall of the Russell home in Joliet. The amount of overkill and mess left at the scene suggested without much doubt that it was the same heavy handed killer, but like the case of the Desert City Strangler something had changed. The symbol had been translated by the same team who had worked on the case of Kathy Summers, and while it had been easy enough to find the literal translation, what they couldn't figure out what was why. It was almost as though the two were communicating with each other, though that couldn't, or shouldn't be possible. Authorities had never considered that the two killers might know one another, and there was no reason to suspect it now, even with the evidence in front of them. There had to be more solid proof, not just speculation, before it could be considered a key factor in either case

For Dean it was all rather amusing, truly, because the investigators were neither wrong no right, not technically. He and Castiel didn't know each other.

At least not yet.


End file.
